


Heliotrope

by purewanderlust



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Pre-Series, Season/Series 01, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 16:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5633944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purewanderlust/pseuds/purewanderlust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And really, how could Sam be expected to predict that a book report he wrote when he was seventeen would shape the next five years of his life, and possibly everything else from there on out? The butterfly effect, he thought grimly, had nothing on V.C. Andrews.<br/>OR<br/>Sam's high school reading of Flowers in the Attic has unexpected and far-reaching consequences for his relationship with his brother.</p><p>Written for Wincest Secret Santa 2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heliotrope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [houxvertetbruyere](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=houxvertetbruyere).



> In the language of flowers, heliotrope means "devotion/faithfulness" or "eternal love."

Halfway through Sam’s senior year of high school, John moves them to a tiny town off I-70, somewhere in northern Missouri. He's hunting a pair of black-eyed children who have been cutting a bloody trail through the state, and the homes of anyone foolish enough to invite them inside. By some miracle (or, more likely, Dean's intervention), he hasn't asked either of the boys to help on this one. They're mostly alone in their rundown rental house on the edge of town and, to be completely honest, Sam prefers it that way. Things haven't gotten tense between him and his father lately, and Sam can't even begin to parse out who is more at fault.

The least he can hope for right now is some space from Dad, the opportunity to hang out with his brother, and maybe the chance to finish up high school without moving again. Sam actually likes this school, for once. His English teacher, Ms. Roberts, is particularly cool.

"I'm so over required reading, aren't you?" She'd asked the class two weeks prior. "You only enjoy reading when you read what you _want_ to!"

Here she had paused for effect, raising her perfectly manicured eyebrows until they disappeared into her bangs.

"We're gonna do something different this semester. You can read any book you want, but," she held up a slender finger, "there is one condition. Whatever you read, I want you to find an unusual stance within the book, and you will write a persuasive essay with the goal of convincing me of your point of view."

Ms. Roberts paced in front of the chalkboard, a small smile playing at her lips. "I don't want to see essays trying to persuade me of something I already agree with, or of a common argument--please, don't tell me how manipulative Miss Havisham was, or that Hamlet inevitably became crazy after pretending for so long. I'm giving you 100% open rein on which book you choose, so I really want to see you put some thought into this."

Sam had been excited at the time, but here he was two weeks later, no closer to having selected a book.

"Did that jello do something to personally offend you?" A voice quips from behind him.

Sam shakes himself from his musing and glances up with a grin. "Hey, Suze."

The girl returns his smile, taking a seat opposite of him at the lunch table. She has skin the color of polished mahogany and a headful of springy black curls, and she is Sam's best and only friend at the new school.

"What's eatin' you, Winchester? You look like a kicked puppy."

Sam shrugs. "I still haven't figured out what book to read for my persuasive essay. And by default what to write the essay about."

Suze clicks her tongue. "Is there some belief or lifestyle choice you have that's out of the ordinary?"

Sam snorts, jabbing at his jello with a little more force than necessary. "You have no idea. What are you writing about?"

" _The_ _Outsiders,_ " she answers, smoothly ignoring his change of subject. "Specifically, everything that happens after Pony Boy gets dunked is actually just a last desperate dream his brain fired off before he drowned."

Sam stares at her in disbelief. "That's pretty dark."

"I've got in-book citations to back it up." She says with a shrug, "We'll see if they actually convince Roberts." She pauses, her expression turning thoughtful. "Hang on..." She pulls her bookbag into her lap and starts digging through it. "Here."

Sam takes the well-worn paperback she's offering and turns it over to read the title. _Flowers in the Attic._ "What's this?"

"It's really good, but definitely controversial," Suze answers. "Super fucked up too; it got banned from the school library."

"Why?"

Suze shrugs. "It's messed up, just read it. Maybe you'll find something in there for your persuasive essay."

Sam studies the cover with a sudden feeling of foreboding. "Uh. Thanks, I guess."

*

Something is going on with Sam.

Dean hasn't determined what it is just yet, but he's been watching Sam for his whole life. It's only a matter of time before he figures it out.

Case in point, he walks in after his shift at the garage and Sam is curled into the corner of the threadbare couch, holding a book so close his pointed nose is practically skimming the page. He doesn't even seem to have registered Dean's presence.

Dean drops his bag next to the door and grins when Sam practically flies off the sofa. "Whatcha readin', Sammy Boy?"

Sam's face flushes hot and red, one of Dean's favorite looks on him. "I, I, I nothing! It--it's just a book for school. Real stupid." He punctuates this by shoving the book down into the couch cushions.

This just makes Dean all the more curious. "You sure you ain't got a skin mag hidden in the pages? You sure look hot and bothered."

"No!" Sam yelps, his voice shooting up an octave. "I'm not gross like you, Dean!"

"Then let's see it," Dean answers, casual as you please, holding his hand out.

Sam goes even redder. "I didn't know you could read." Even embarrassed, he manages to be a smart ass.

Dean crooks an eyebrow. "That ain't the only thing I can do, sunshine." Sam's eyes widen and Dean thinks belatedly that maybe there was a better way to word that.

Rather than think too hard on it, he dives at Sam, tackling him over the arm of the couch and onto the floor. They wrestle for a few minutes, but Sam clearly wasn't prepared for the attack, and Dean pins him with relative ease, knees bracketing his brother's narrow waist, one hand wrapped around Sam's wrists, holding them above his head.

"Now let's see what we have here," Dean reaches back over the arm of the couch and fishes the paperback out from between the cushions with his free hand. Sam curses and gnashes, struggling to break his hold, and Dean can't help but watch for minute before he turns back to the book. The cover is a creepy looking house with a young girl peering longingly out the highest window. "Flowers in the Attic? What is this, some girly romance novel?"

Sam licks his lips, and Dean tracks the motion. The fight drains out of him and he relaxes into Dean's grip. "Yeah. Didn't want you to make fun of me."

Dean flashes his best shit-eating grin. "Big brother's prerogative, baby."

Sam swallows thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing and Dean is suddenly aware of how close he is to his brother, still leaning over Sam to pin his wrists to the floor. He can feel Sam’s breath hot on his face.

"Can you let me up now?" Sam is saying, and as soon as the question registers in Dean's sluggish brain, he rolls off. He tosses the book on the coffee table with a little more force than necessary and it slides all the way across and thuds softly onto the carpet on the opposite side.

"Maybe next time, you'll be more aware of your surroundings, hmm, Sammy?"

Sam sits up, frowning at him, his nose wrinkling in the endearing way it always does. He looks like he's trying to figure something out. "Whatever you say, Dean. Now I really do have to finish this, it's for a project."

Before Dean can say another word, Sam scoops up the book and pads into the bedroom. It's only when he hears the door click shut that Dean realizes that he's still kneeling on the floor, staring after his brother.

Yeah, something weird is definitely going on with Sam, and Dean’s going to get to the bottom of it.

*

Sam has never been under any sort of illusion that his life is normal. His father hunts monsters for a living, and his brother can field strip a rifle in under a minute. Sam himself can hit a moving target with a knife from fifty feet. They're outcasts, orphans, modern day highwaymen.

So when Sam turned thirteen and puberty slammed into him with all the force of a charging werewolf, it didn't really surprise him to find Dean as object of his desire. It horrified him, sure. Made him sick as a dog, running to the bathroom to throw up in the dead of night when he couldn't stand sharing a bed with his brother any longer. It terrified him, too, the thought of what Dad would say if he knew, or worse, what Dean would think of him. But surprise was never part of the package. Sam Winchester didn't get to have normal, this was just another example. After nearly five years of feeling this way, he’s pretty much resigned to it.

So the surprise he's feeling now, as he reads the book Suze leant him, is a new feeling.

Sam is not an idiot. He knows the book is fiction, that none of this happened. But every lie has a grain of truth, and every story has an inspiration.

Chris and Cathy may not be real, but the fact that they were written means somebody somewhere thought it was possible. A pair of siblings who have nothing but each other become everything to each other. It's possible in the book and that suddenly means Sam is thinking of it as a possibility in real life as he has never done before.

Up until now, Sam has never let his mind wander into these dangerous waters. He's never entertained the idea that Dean could ever feel the same way about him.

But he's never read this book before now. And Dean's never pinned him to the floor and called him _sunshine_ and _baby_ before now. He's never stared at Sam like he didn't quite know what to do with him anymore.

Most likely, Dean isn't doing things any differently than he ever has. It's just this damn book fucking with his head. Because Dean doesn't feel that way about him, and even if he did, he'd die before giving in to it.

Sam doesn't know how much longer he can live like this, so he's trying to take things one day at a time. Finish the book, write an essay, figure the rest out later.

And he will figure it out eventually, right?

*

"Hey, Sammy, I'm home!" Dean calls, shutting the front door and poking his head into the living room. "Wanna go get pizza?"

Sam isn't there, so Dean tosses down his bag and goes to check the bedroom. Sam isn't there either, but Dean hears the telltale spray of the shower and relaxes. He goes into the kitchen and fishes the water jug out of the fridge, taking a gulp straight from it. If Sam knew, he'd bitch and whine and make Dean use a glass. He grins at the thought.

Things have still been weird between them the last few days, but Dean is determined to get them back on even footing. This tension that's been happening since the wrestling match over that book--maybe even before that--it feels dangerous, and Dean's instincts are telling him to back away from it as quickly as possible.

Dean shoves the water jug back into the fridge and turns to leave, but stops when he notices a stack of loose leaf notebook sheets sitting on the rickety table. They're covered, front and back, in Sam's precise handwriting and for reasons Dean can't quite explain, he's suddenly overcome with curiosity. Maybe he can get some insight into what’s been eating at his brother lately.

It's an essay, probably the school project Sam mentioned, and it's easily six or seven pages long. Dean doesn't read further than the first line, though.

_The taboo against sibling incest is a social construct, and in some extreme cases a romantic relationship between siblings is not only understandable, but is the best case scenario._

Dean stares at the words for a long time, like maybe he can rearrange them into something that isn't suggesting what Sam seems to be suggesting. He stands frozen in the kitchen, clutching the essay for so long that the shower cuts off and Sam appears in the kitchen door with a towel wrapped around his waist.

"Hey, Dean, how was--" he stops abruptly, taking in the paper in his brother's hand and his pale, silent expression. "Oh God."

"Sammy?" Dean prompts, his  brain finally coming back online. Maybe this is theoretical, maybe the essay is written about fictional characters and he doesn't actually want...

"Dean," Sam says, his voice high with panic, and that answers that question. "You were never supposed to know."

"Then why write a paper about it and leave it where anyone could find it?" Dean asks. There's no inflection to his voice, like he's bored as hell by this conversation, but inside he's in turmoil.

"I, I, I didn't know you'd be home so soon."

"Why write the paper _at all_ , Sam?!" Dean shouts, shaking it at him.

Sam looks scared. "The assignment was to write a persuasive essay about an unconventional opinion, I--"

"Unconventional?!" Dean cuts him off. "That's a hell of an understatement, don't you think?"

Sam is white as a sheet, but Dean can't seem to stop.

"You tell me you're all aboard the incest train and then call it fucking _unconventional_? It's wrong, Sam, it's so fucking wrong! You have to know that!"

"I..." Sam starts but Dean shakes his head.

"Don't, Sam. I gotta get some air." He turns to leave, trying to ignore the tears that are flooding Sam's eyes. "Stay put, you hear me?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, slamming out of the house and into the car before he does something he regrets.

He's not even sure what that might be, at this point.

*

Dean doesn’t come back for hours, and Sam spends the majority of that time having the worst panic attack of his life. His stomach churns when he thinks about the look of disgust on Dean’s face before he took off, and he gags into the sink, spitting up a string of bile. There’s not enough in his stomach for him to manage much more than that, so Sam rinses his mouth with a glass of water and tries to figure out what he should do.

His first instinct is to run, just to pack his bags and get the hell outta dodge, but he has nowhere to go and no resources to get there even if he did. Besides, Dean told him to stay put and some small part of his frantic brain hopes that obeying his brother will keep the situation from getting worse.

Not that it really can get much worse.

Unless Dean tells Dad.

At that thought, Sam has to collapse into one of the dining room chairs and put his head between his knees to regulate his breathing. There are tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and he blinks them away impatiently, trying to regain some sense of self-control. It doesn’t really do much for him.

Eventually Sam manages to get to his feet and staggers to the bedroom he shares with Dean. He falls face-down onto the mattress without bothering to undress and cries until he falls asleep.

*

Dean drives aimlessly through town, gas stations and bars flashing by until he hits the city limits and speeds out onto the highway. It’s getting dark, so he flips on the headlights, sharp beams cutting through the encroaching blackness.

There's a hot feeling burning in the pit of Dean’s stomach, like a physical ache. He chooses to recognize it as anger, though he doesn't know exactly who he’s angry at. Sam is just a kid, and he never gets to form connections with anyone else because of the way they live. Dean can deal with random hookups and one-night stands, but he knows that's not in Sam’s nature. With the constant moving, it's not so surprising that he doesn't have a strong concept of what a romantic relationship should be.

This is Dean's fault; if he had made sure Sam was making friends, if he hadn’t been so physically affectionate with his brother, if he hadn't brought girls home to their shared space. He knows there’s been more than one occasion where he maybe didn’t take as much care as he should’ve in making sure Sam didn’t see something that he shouldn’t have, forgetting to close doors or not taking into account his brother’s routine. It’s not wonder things have gotten twisted around in Sam’s mind.

“I can fix this,” Dean says out loud, running his hand aimlessly over the steering wheel. “I’m gonna fix it.”

It still takes him another fifteen minutes to get up the courage to turn the car around.

When Dean gets home, the house is dead silent. The lights are still on in the kitchen, but Sam appears to have retreated to the bedroom. Dean pads quietly down the hall and opens the door to peer in on his brother.

Sam is sprawled diagonally across the queen mattress that they share, his eyes closed, breathing slow and deep. His lips are slightly parted and his shirt is rucked up so that a sliver of his bare stomach is visible. There are tear tracks on his cheeks, and one of his slender hands is twisted in the sheets like he’d been holding on for dear life before he fell asleep.

Dean’s chest does the weird swooping, clenching thing it’s been doing every few minutes since he first picked up the essay and he leans against the doorjamb rubbing his sternum idly and studying his brother. Sam looks deceptively peaceful like this, the usually furrowed lines of his brow smoothed away by sleep. Dean wishes he could crawl into bed with his brother and curl around him like when they were children, telling stories to keep the monsters at bay. The fact that it’s suddenly not possible anymore makes him feel strangely hollow.

“You gonna stand there all night?” Sam’s voice suddenly cuts through the silence and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin. He can see the glint of Sam’s fox-narrow eyes trained on him through the near darkness, though it’s impossible to make out his expression.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Sam says when Dean doesn’t answer. It’s an obvious attempt at his usual snark, but he can’t hide the way his voice shakes and Dean wonders if Sam is afraid of him.

“Sam…” he starts, taking a step into the room, but Sam shoots up into a sitting position, cutting him off before Dean can even finish his thought.

“Don’t, please.”

Dean frowns. “Sam, we have to talk about this.”

“Oh, we really, really don’t.” Sam says.

“We can’t just ignore this!”

“Dean, please,” Sam begs, his voice shivery and distressed, “You never want to talk about anything, can you just leave this alone?”

Dean wants to drop it more than anything, if it will make Sam stop sounding like that, but he needs to take care of his brother. “Sammy, this is all my fault, I have to fix this.”

Suddenly, Sam is off the bed and in his face. “What the hell, Dean? This is all your fault? I’m fucked up beyond hope of saving and somehow it’s _your fault_?” Sam’s voice is rising in pitch, bordering on hysterical, his face red and blotchy, and Dean takes an involuntary step back. “You can’t fucking fix me Dean, so just leave me the hell alone!” Before Dean can counter that, or even open his mouth, Sam puts both hands on his chest and shoves as hard as he can. Dean topples backwards and lands on his ass and Sam slams the door so hard that the walls shake.

Dean sits there, staring at the door in stunned silence for several minutes, but Sam doesn’t open it and apologize like he keeps hoping he will. Finally he pushes to his feet and takes a couple unsteady steps toward the door, putting his hand on the knob.  
  
He can hear Sam inside, crying in shuddery, wracking sobs and he swallows thickly and lets go of the doorknob. Dean goes back to the living room and throws himself down on the couch. He stares at the water spots on the ceiling and tries to figure out what to do now.

He doesn’t fall asleep for a long time.

*

Sam drifts in and out of sleep all night, jerking awake a few times every hour, remembering the confrontation with his brother. He finally gives up around four in the morning and heaves himself out of the bed, feeling unrested and miserable. The house seems quiet, but Sam hesitates for a long moment before carefully turning the doorknob and creeping out into the hallway.

Dean is asleep on the couch, booted feet kicked up on the sofa arm. He doesn't stir as Sam moves past, and Sam wonders if his night had been just as restless. There's a deep furrow between his eyebrows, and shadows under his closed eyes--both Sam's fault, no doubt. He swallows past the lump that’s suddenly rising in his throat and tiptoes past, quietly shutting himself in the bathroom.

As soon as he's double-checked that the door is locked, he sinks down on the lip of the bathtub and puts his head in his hands. He's been trying not to dwell too much on what happened yesterday, but now that's he's completely awake he knows he has to deal with it.

Sam never really wanted this life to begin with--has been thinking about college for years already--but now that he has no choice but to leave, the notion is terrifying. Maybe because in his perfect vision, he'd still be able to come back and visit his family during school breaks. He might be able to get along with John in smaller doses, and Dean would always be happy to see him.

There's no hope of any of that, now.

Sam swipes his hand impatiently over his face. He's not going to cry about this anymore, he has arrangements to make. It might actually be easier now, because Dean probably will avoid him rather than watch-dogging his every move like he usually does. Sam takes a sick sort of comfort in that; finally he's going to get the freedom he’s been fighting for his whole life.

And all he had to do was completely ruin his relationship with his brother.

*

Dean wakes up to the smell of eggs and bacon. Groaning, he rolls onto his side and shoves his face into the couch cushions. He feels terrible, like he didn't even sleep at all, and he is no closer to knowing how to deal with this situation with Sam than he was last night.

 _Sam_. Abruptly, he realizes that Sam must be the one cooking--Dad isn't due back for a few more days at least.

Dean sits up, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Sam was right about at least one thing last night: talking about emotional stuff has never been Dean's forte. But he knows they have to discuss this before it tears them apart.

That sobering thought in mind, Dean gets to his feet and pads noiselessly to the kitchen. He hesitates for a moment at the door. Sam is facing away from him, standing over the stove with a spatula in hand. He's shirtless, his tanned shoulders having broadened out over the last summer and leaving most of his shirts ill-fitting. He’s got a better body than Dean, who has always resented his stocky build and bowlegs. Sam’s back tapers down to a narrow waist and long, muscular legs. He looks strong and capable and so grown up that Dean wouldn't believe that he's still a kid if he hadn't seen every permutation of Sam throughout the years.

Dean doesn’t want to get any more maudlin than he already is, so he clears his throat announcing his presence before he’s even thought of what to say. Sam’s shoulders tense instantly and then relax with what Dean imagines was a concentrated effort.

“I made breakfast.” Sam says without turning around. “I was about to come wake you up.”

“Sammy…” Dean finally finds his voice and then Sam does turn around. His expression is carefully neutral, and he only meets Dean’s eyes for a second before dropping his gaze.

“Plates are on the counter, help yourself. You want orange juice or milk?”

“Juice,” answers Dean automatically. “Listen, Sam--”

“I hope scrambled is okay,” Sam continues, turning to dig in the fridge. “I know you like over-easy, but I broke the yoke when I tried to flip them.” He shoots Dean a hesitant smirk over the top of the open refrigerator door and sets the orange juice carton on the counter. “Guess I’m not as good a cook as you. Are you gonna eat or what?” His lips twitch and the smile dies, which is somehow worse than if he hadn't attempted it at all.

Dean realizes with a start that he’s just standing in the middle of the kitchen staring at his brother and moves automatically to the stove to fix a plate. He sits down at the rickety table feeling miserably confused and wondering if Sam maybe just feels like this is a conversation better had over food.

It doesn’t feel like appropriate breakfast conversation.

Sam doesn't join him at the table, though. Instead, he vanishes out into the hallway and then Dean hears the bathroom tap come on. Dean listens to Sam clattering around in there for a while, before he reappears in the kitchen door. He's wearing sneakers and a hoodie now, and his book bag is on his shoulder.

“You're not eating,” he says, voice quiet. Dean looks down at his plate where the eggs are starting to congeal. “Did I burn them?”

Dean shakes his head. “Sam…”

His brother takes a half step back. “Wish I could stick around and chat, but I've got to get to school.”

“It's Saturday,” Dean snaps, a flicker of anger finally burning through his confusion.

“Yeah. Standardized testing,” Sam replies, still so infuriatingly calm. “And they don't let you take it if you show up late, so I really gotta go.”

“Do you need a ride?”

“Nope, thanks!” Sam is already halfway out the door. “Bye, Dean!”

The front door snaps shut well before Dean can respond, let alone confront his brother about what happened yesterday.

He doesn't know what he would've said, anyway.

*

Sam puts most of his energy over the next few weeks into avoiding his brother. Dean makes it easy, because after the initial attempts to get Sam to talk to him, he pretty much drops it. The victory is a hollow one, though, reaffirming the fact that they can’t ever go back to normal after this. They talk as much as they have to and otherwise tiptoe around each other like they’re walking on broken glass. Dad is the only person who would possibly pick up on the strain, but he’s been away more and more, and for longer periods of time--especially in the last six months or so; since Sam stopped taking his shit and started refusing to blindly obey orders.

Sam apparently has a hidden talent for alienating his family members.

Dean mostly works at the garage in town to pay for their rent, and other things they can’t cover with credit card fraud, but every couple of weeks he goes off with Dad on a hunt, and Sam has to sit at home and wonder if maybe this is the last time he sees his brother. Sam still worries about his family when they’re out there in the dark, he’s just not allowed to show it anymore.

Even as his home life falls apart, Sam flourishes at school. Unlike Dean, Mrs. Roberts is very impressed with his essay and, before long, Sam has a long, glowing recommendation letter from her for his file.

It's not all so easy, though. A week after Mrs. Roberts writes his letter of recommendation, Sam gets pulled out of his trig class and sent to the counselor's office.

“Sam Winchester,” Ms. Byrd says, studying him over the rims of her spectacles. “Your English teacher gave me quite the recommendation for your file the other day, but aside from that and an excellent SAT score, there's nothing else there. Is there a reason you haven't applied for any colleges?”

Sam shifts in his chair, dropping his gaze to his lap. He twists his fingers together and shrugs.

The truth is, leaving his family is turning out to be harder than he had anticipated, even after he's ruined everything. But that's not exactly something he can say to this complete stranger.

“Sam,” she says gently, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the desk. “Do you want to go to college?"

“I dunno,” he lies. “It's a lot of money.”

Ms. Byrd smiles. “With your test scores, Sam, I don't think that will be a problem. It took some work, but I managed to collect all your records from all four years of high school.” she opens her top desk drawer and pulls out a thick file folder. “You have a three-point-eight-five GPA, which is great in general, but when considering you've bounced between nine different high schools, frankly, it’s remarkable.”

Sam feels his cheeks heating and looks back down at his lap. “I…I do wanna go to college.” He confesses. “But…”

The counselor folds her hands together, expression serious. “Sam, is your family opposed to you going to college?”

He looks up, surprised, but Ms. Byrd doesn't look at all taken aback.

“Sam. I know this may seem hard to believe, but unfortunately, it’s not as uncommon as you might believe. There are lots of reasons families don't want their children leaving for school. Cost, distance, just plain fear…”

“My--” Sam swallows past the lump in his throat, continues, “my dad wants me to join the family business. He never went to college, and my brother didn't even finish high school. Plus, I don't have money for application fees, and any letters that came to my house would get thrown out and my dad would be so pissed…” Once he starts talking, Sam can't seem to stop, all his fears and failures bubbling up and spilling over.

Ms. Byrd lets him talk, a sad smile lingering on her face. When he finally finishes, she asks: “Sam, what do _you_ want to do? Forget about your brother and your father for just a moment and tell me where you want to be a year from now.”

“I wanna be at college,” Sam says immediately, “but--”

Ms. Byrd cuts him off. “If you want to go to college, we will make it happen,” she tells him. “Sam, you have an enormous potential and, more importantly, a desire to do something with it. You can't let other people's wishes for you stand in the way of your goals.”

He stares at her, his heart hammering in his chest. She must take his silence for acquiescence because she starts pulling forms from there filling cabinet under her desk.

“Okay, so we'll have to fill out this form--it's financial assistance for application fees. Here's my card; when you start filling out applications, you can have acceptance letters sent here so you don't have to worry about your family finding out--”

She's still talking, but Sam is so overwhelmed by her kindness that he pushes out from his chair and leans over his desk so he can hug her. Ms. Byrd makes a soft ‘oh’ sound, but her arms come up and wrap around him in response. Sam feels tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and wonders for a moment if this is what having a mother feels like.

He breaks away and sits back down, picking up a pen and starting on the paperwork she's given him. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

Ms. Byrd doesn't answer, but she puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

Sam leaves her office half an hour later with an assignment to create a shortlist of colleges and more hope than he's felt in months.

*

Dean should've seen it coming. Things have been weird for months. Sam has been practically a ghost, coming and going, and never saying a word to Dean. He hasn't so much as made eye contact, it feels like--not since Dean found that book report. And since his graduation (Dean attended, Dad did not), Sam's gotten even more cagey. Even with the distance yawning between them, Dean knows his brother better than he knows himself. Something is definitely up.

So really, there's no excuse. Dad's always taught them hyper-vigilance, that the most dangerous thing you can be is off your guard. Enemies will try to get you off-balance, he tells them, and the only defense is to be prepared for anything.

Dean wasn't prepared to find out that his brother had a crush on him, or whatever it was. He hadn't been prepared for Sam to stop talking to him, either, and it made him feel as insignificant as the dirt on his shoes.

He certainly isn't prepared for Sam to walk out of his life forever. But that's exactly what Sam does.

Dad has just gotten home when it happens. It's been weeks since they've seen him--Dean suspects he had a lead on the yellow-eyed demon. Sam is marginally less hostile than he's been for the last few months, so Dean decides to go pick up Chinese for the whole family so they can have dinner together. He even gets three extra egg rolls for Sam, hoping maybe the peace offering will end the months-long silent treatment he's been getting. He's feeling pretty good about the whole thing right up to the moment he walks back into their shabby little rental.

Sam and Dad are standing on opposite sides of the living room, glaring at each other and it feels like the temperature is about ten degrees colder than it was outside.

“What's going on?” Dean asks cautiously. By now, he's used to breaking up their arguments, but this feels different.

“Why don't you ask your brother?” John sneers.

Dean turns to Sam and registers for the first time that his brother has a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, knuckles white from how tightly he's gripping the strap. “Sammy?”

Sam's face just _crumbles_ , there's no other word for it. “Dean,” he says in a wrecked voice. “I…I'm leaving.”

There a curious ache in Dean's stomach, a swooping sensation like the floor just fell out from under him. “Leaving?” He repeats dumbly.

Sam looks miserable, but he nods. “I got a full ride to Stanford. I'm gonna go…you guys don't need me here.”

Dean wants to argue, _I need you here Sammy, you can't leave me,_ but there's a roaring in his ears that's making it hard to think, let alone talk. He swallows a couple times, but it doesn't get rid of the lump in his throat.

“You've always been so damn selfish,” John snarls. “We're your family and you're gonna abandon us--abandon the fight just because you wanna be a college boy?”

“What fight?” Sam cries. “We can't kill every single monster out there! And you're no closer to finding the one that killed Mom than you were eighteen years ago!”

John's face turns grey and he lurches forward, raising his hand like he's going to strike Sam. Dean moves automatically, jumping between them and grabbing John's elbow. “Dad, stop!”

John jerks free, but he doesn't move towards Sam again. “If you want to leave, then leave!” He roars. “But don't you ever show your face here again!”

Dean has his back to Sam, still between them, so he can't see his brother's expression, but he he hears the sharp intake of breath, like all the air has been sucked out of Sam's lungs. He's not feeling too steady himself. The moment freezes, stretches out until there's nothing but  silence and the three of them, Dean in the eye of the hurricane that is his family.

“Fine.” Sam's voice, when he finally speaks, is unwavering. Dean feels the word like a physical blow. “I’m outta here.”

Dean spins to face him, but Sam has his eyes trained on the ground as he storms out the door. It only takes a split-second for Dean to decide to follow him. He catches a glimpse of his father's face, John's expression warring between worry and righteous anger. He doesn't have time for that, though, because Sammy is _leaving._

“Sam!” He shouts, spilling out the front door and jogging down the steps. “Sam, wait!” Sam's long legs have already eaten up the entire length of the driveway. He could just keep going, turn onto the street and not look back, but he stops at the sound of Dean's voice. He doesn't turn or otherwise respond, but he does stop. Dean runs toward him, feet skidding on the gravel drive. It starts to rain. Of course.

“Sammy, what…what're you doing?” It’s a stupid question, Dean knows it is, but now that he's faced with his brother's blank expression, he has no idea what to say.

“Were you not paying attention before, Dean?” Sam says, his voice cold. “I'm going to college. I know you couldn't, but I'm pretty sure you know what it is.”

It's a low blow and Dean flinches, but he soldiers on. “You didn't tell me.”

Sam shrugs, dropping his gaze. “I don't know if you've noticed, but we haven't exactly been on speaking terms the last couple months.”

“Is that what this is about?” Dean demands, “Sammy, you don't have to _leave_ , I can--” he stops, because he's not sure what he is about to say. Sam is looking at him again, incredulity finally transforming his neutral expression. He glares up at his brother through his wet bangs, defiant. Dean has the poorly-timed realization that Sam is nearly as tall as him now.

“You can _what_ , Dean?” He snaps, “Don't say stupid shit. Besides, that's not why.”

“Then why?” Dean shouts. “What the fuck, Sam? You know what's out there, it's not safe!”

“And it is safe to go after what's out there with a shotgun?” Sam counters, “I want a normal life and I'm never gonna get it living out of motel rooms and hunting monsters. I'm never gonna find it around _you._ ”

Dean takes an involuntary step back, trying to hide the hurt he's sure is evident on his face. Sam's expression softens for a flash, but before Dean can even react, that wall is back up again.

“I'm taking care of myself for once,” he says quietly. “I hope someday you learn how to do that too. Stay safe, Dean.” He turns and starts walking away again, and this time Dean can't even bring himself to stop him.

He stands in the rain for a long time after Sam has disappeared into the distance.

*

John made two promises when Mary died. He vowed to find and destroy whatever creature killed her, and he swore to keep their boys safe no matter what.

Mary would be pretty disappointed in him right now. Sam's gone, run off to college without the slightest clue about the evil that's hunting him. John should've known not to throw out an ultimatum, but his youngest son is so much like him, it never fails to get under his skin. He's paying for the mistake now. Sam’s pride won't allow him to come back, even if he needs help and John thinks he's probably going to live the rest of his life in terror of something happening to his younger boy.

But the toll Sam's abandonment is taking on John is nothing compared to what is doing to Dean. The night that Sam leaves, Dean chases him out into the rain and doesn't come back for nearly an hour. John peeks through the blinds at one point to make sure Sam hasn't convinced Dean to join him in this idiotic venture. Dean is just standing there alone, looking like a lost little boy. It becomes apparent that he's not going to move of his own volition, so John eventually opens the door and barks out a command to come inside. Dean does almost instantly, good at taking orders even in the face of tragedy. He's soaked to the bone, but he doesn't seem to notice, making a beeline for the kitchen and the handle of whiskey on top of the fridge. John doesn't even try to stop him; he's got his own glass already. Dean doesn't bother with a glass, he just unscrews the cap and takes a generous swig.

“Deano…” John says, then trails off. They’ve never really been a sharing-and-caring type of family, and he has no idea what to say to his son right now. Not that it would even register. Dean’s eyes slide over him like he’s not even there and he turns and staggers off to the bedroom he shares with Sam. _Shared_ with Sam. The door closes a little more firmly than necessary, so John decides to give his eldest some space for the time being. He throws back the rest of his whiskey and settles back against the sofa, flinging an arm over his face and trying to erase Dean’s dead-eyed expression from his memory.

John comes to some time later, and at first he can’t figure out what woke him. Then he hears retching from the bathroom, followed by a string of mumbled curses. He’s going to stay out of it, but the next thing he hears is a single, sharp sob that propels him to his feet.

Dean is on the floor in front of the toilet, heaving up everything in his system. The empty whiskey bottle is on the floor next to his left hand, splayed flat on the floor for balance. He moans and ducks his head for another round just as John steps into the bathroom. 

“Still drunk, son?” John asks as he fills up the plastic cup next to the sink with water.

“Fuck,” answers Dean, shoulders shuddering as he’s sick again. John kneels down next to him and offers the water. He finally gets a good look at Dean’s face when he turns to accept it. There are tear tracks down his face that John charitably doesn’t mention, but it’s his eyes that are the worst. Dean’s eyes are full of so much loss and defeat that it hurts to look at him. John recognizes that look--it stares back at him from the mirror every day since he lost Mary.

“I...I knew he’d leave me eventually,” Dean says after he’s drained the water and handed it back. John fumbles and drops the cup on the floor, surprised by the sound of his son's voice. It bounces and rolls away, but Dean doesn’t seem to notice. “It. It’s good, though. He deserves better than this.”

John swallows hard, searching for the right words. He can’t find them. “How about we get out of here in the morning?” he says, instead. “Pastor Jim was looking for somebody to take a hunt up in Maryland.”

Dean’s shoulders slump, but he doesn’t mention Sam again. “Yessir.”

Two days later, Dean’s recklessness almost gets him eviscerated by a black dog outside of Baltimore, and John wonders if maybe he was wrong to compare Dean’s loss to his own.

Maybe what Dean is going through is worse.

*

Stanford is amazing. It's the first thought Sam had when he stepped off the Greyhound onto the campus for the first time, and at the end of his first semester, he still feels that way. There are no early morning drills, no cleaning guns on his bed, no waiting up in the dark hoping that both members of his family come back to him alive. Instead, Stanford has a huge cafeteria that doesn't run out of food before you're full. There's consistent heat, air conditioning, and electricity in the dorms, as well as a working hot water heater. Sam has his own closet that he doesn't have to share or empty out in a frantic rush out of town.

But the best thing Stanford has to offer is other people. For the first time in memory, Sam has real friends that aren't his brother. His roommate Brady who is going to be a doctor, kind-hearted Becky and her brother Zach; they make Sam feel like he can succeed at this normality thing.

Really, the only bad thing so far was the holidays. Sam hadn't even thought about it when he moved to California, but college kids usually went home for Christmas. And Sam had no home to go to. He got a part-time job at the library and spent the season restocking books on the shelves in the deserted library. It was only when he went back to his empty dorm that he really even felt lonely.

He had gotten a phone call on Christmas Eve from a restricted number, and he any other time, he wouldn't’ve answered--he had actually ignored several similar calls in the past. But it was Christmas Eve and he was alone, so he answered.

 

_“Hello?”_

_There was no response, but Sam could feel surprise in the silence from the other end of the line. The caller took a couple of deep breaths and hung up the phone. Sam kept his cell pressed to his ear until the dial tone came back online and then he followed suit._

_(The next morning he had a text message that read “merry christmas” but he couldn't reply because it was a blocked number.)_

 

So yeah. The holidays hadn't been great, but everyone is arriving back for the spring semester now, so there's no point in dwelling on it anymore. He’s going out tonight with Brady and Becky, to meet up with another one of their friends. Brady’s had a tense energy about him since he came back, so Sam hopes an evening out will help him unwind a bit.

Brady reappears at the dorm at exactly eight o’clock to pick Sam up. He’s been doing a lot of that lately--disappearing for long stretches of time and coming back in at odd hours. Sam hopes the med program isn’t stressing him out too much.

“Sam-may!” he crows, clapping a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “How’s it goin’, man?”

Sam winces at the nickname, but turns to face Brady anyway, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “It’s going,” he answers. “Where were you all last night? Didn’t you have a biology thing due?”

Brady frowns. “You worry too much, Sam. I was out with those guys from Theta--damn, they know how to throw a party!”

“A house party the week after we get back from break? Isn’t that a bit soon?” Sam knows he sounds like a total geek--Dean would give him hell for it--but Brady is usually an incredibly focused student and he’s not thinking clearly for some reason.

Predictably, Brady rolls his eyes and turns away. “If you’re gonna be such a mother hen, I’ll just leave your ass here.” He pauses and glances back, a sly grin on his face. “Too bad. Jessica was really looking forward to meeting you.”

Sam feels his eyebrows pulling together. “You make it sound like you’ve talked to her about me.”

“Dude.” Brady’s expression is somewhere in the vicinity of _are-you-serious-right-now?_ “It’s not like a blind date or anything...I just think you guys will get along. Maybe it’ll turn out to be something more. Maybe not. Jeez, lighten up.”

And it’s true, Sam has been living like a monk since he got to school. He has plenty of friends now, but he hasn’t been on a single date. Even before he came back from break brasher and more forthright than ever, Brady never missed an opportunity to call him out on his persistent singleness.

But it’s kind of hard to find a date when you’re already in love with someone. Not that he’s going to tell Brady that.

“Fine, okay.” Sam throws his hands up, “I’ll let you work your magic or whatever. Does this mean I need to dress nicer?”

Brady eyes him, an unfamiliar spark of appreciation in his gaze, and Sam feels his cheeks heat. “You’ll do. C’mon, we’re gonna be late.” Then he’s sweeping out the door and Sam has no choice but to follow.

The girls are waiting for them at a bar a little ways off campus. It’s pretty much your typical dive; jukebox in the corner, blue smoke curling through the air, domestic on tap. Sam’s been to some of the more upscale places that cater to the rich Stanford kids, but he still prefers the familiarity of this type of place. He takes a minute to appreciate that Brady picked up on that, because his roommate is not always the most intuitive.

They slide into a booth across the table from Becky and an unfamiliar girl who must be Jess. Sam has to admit she’s beautiful, with tanned skin and golden blonde hair falling in waves around her shoulders. She looks up when they arrive and he’s immediately struck by her cocksure smile and stunning green eyes.

“You must be the Sam that Becky and Brady won’t shut up about,” she says, eyes alight with mischief. “Damn, you’re tall. Guess you really ate your Wheaties, huh?”

Sam smiles, and offers her his hand across the table. “That’s me, Sam Winchester. I have to admit, though, I haven’t heard much about you.”

Jess has a strong grip and she waits a beat before pulling her hand back. “That’s because Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum over here were afraid you wouldn’t come. You’re braver than that, though, I can tell.”

“You’re that good at reading people?” Sam asks, biting back a smirk. This back and forth feels familiar and he likes it immediately.

“I hope so, or all these bullshit psych classes are for nothing,” she returns, eyes glinting with a challenge. “What about you, Sam? What are you studying?”

“Uh, law, I think. That or social work, but I haven’t declared yet.”

“Oh man, tall, dark, and handsome, and a hero too?” Jess winks at Sam. “You really are the total package.”

Sam feels himself flushing, but he doesn’t really mind. “It’s a shame Brady didn’t introduce us earlier.” He glances over to chide his roommate, but somewhere during the conversation, Brady had slipped away. Becky was gone too, and Jess realized it at the same time Sam did.

“Okay, I have to give them props, that was a pretty smooth set-up.” She brushes her hair back out of her eyes, and looks up at Sam with those bright green eyes. “Might as well meet their expectations. You wanna get out of here? Maybe go for a drive?”

Sam feels a smile growing on his face, and his chest feels lighter than it has in months. “You know what? Yeah, I’d really like that.”

*

Dean is drunk.

Nowadays, it feels like he’s always a little bit drunk, but tonight he is wasted beyond belief. It’s no wonder Dad left. Which is why he’s drinking so hard in the first place. Thinking of the empty room he has to go back to makes his stomach knot, so he orders another double.

“You’re really downing ‘em tonight, hon,” the bartender says, but she pours him another. “Romantic woes?”

“Familial,” Dean corrects, rubbing his fingers idly against the grain of the bar. “Always familial.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” she agrees sympathetically. Someone further down the bar calls her away and Dean is left alone again with his thoughts.

 

_“I don’t really think this one is a two-man job,” John had told him that morning as he packed his truck. “It’s just a pair of restless spirits, I can take care of it on my own.”_

_“What am I supposed to do?” Dean had asked, but he wasn’t really even arguing. He had known for a long time that eventually John would leave him too._

_John eyed him for a long moment before speaking. “Sober up and I’ll text you coordinates for a hunt when I find one. You’re old enough to be hunting on your own now, anyway. We’ll cover more ground this way.”_

 

Dean wanted to beg him not to go, but he hadn’t asked that of his father since he was six years old. Besides, he can’t really blame John for wanting to get away. He knows he’s been intolerable since Sam left.

The truth of the matter is he’s of no use to anyone now that Sam is gone.

“Another?” The bartender reappears, bottle of Beam in hand. “It’s last call.”

Dean looks around and sure enough, the place is clearing out. He’s the only one left sitting at the bar. He nods and pushes his glass towards her with his fingers. She fills it and then sets the bottle aside, perching her elbow on the bar and resting her chin in her hand. “So,” she says. “You’re awful good-looking to be sitting alone drowning your sorrows on a Friday night.”

“It rains equally upon the just and the unjust,” Dean quips. “And on the ugly and the beautiful too.”

The bartender laughs, a surprisingly light sound. “I like the addition. But you’re forgetting something.”

Dean looks at her properly for the first time. She’s a beauty herself, with dark hair pulled into a messy bun at the nape of her neck and intelligence in her hazel eyes. There’s something else in her eyes too, darker, and Dean leans forward, a crooked smirk pulling at his lips. “Am I?” he asks, “What’s that?”

“The beautiful may have opportunities that others don’t,” she says, voice dropping suggestively. “I imagine you’d know all about that.”

Dean licks his lips. This might be exactly what he needs. “Oh, I’m sure you do too, sweetheart.”

“I live upstairs,” she answers. “I can show you around after I lock up, if you want.”

The bar is empty, except for the two of them, so it only takes her a few minutes to lock up while Dean stands next to the bar, rocking back and forth on the balls of his heels. As soon as she’s done, she takes him up a flight of stairs behind the bar and into a small studio apartment. As soon as the door closes, he pushes her up against it and kisses her, hard. Her arms wrap around his neck and she opens her mouth to him on a gasp.

Dean slides his hand up the back of her shirt and unhooks her bra, pulling it and her shirt off together in one fluid motion. He drops them on the floor and moves back in, pressing his body up against hers and ducking to get her breast in his mouth. She wraps one of her legs around his hips and rocks against him.

“Uhh, god,” she moans. “Bed, now.”

Dean grabs her other leg and hoists her up, turning to the bed tossing her down onto it. He follows after, relishing in the stunned look on her face. He drags her skirt and panties off and then yanks his own shirt off as he slides down between her legs. He licks and sucks on her clit, slipping a finger deep inside and she arches into his hand.

“Oh please just fuck me,” she begs as he shoves up and in with a second finger.

Dean doesn’t need to be told twice and he pulls a condom from his wallet before shucking his own jeans and rolling it on. “Ready?” he asks, voice ragged and she nods frantically.

They’re both so raring for it that he doesn’t even bother to go slow, just shoves all the way in with one rough thrust. She clenches around him, hot and wet, and god it’s so good, why hasn’t he been doing this every night?

The fact is, he hasn’t slept with any girls since Sam’s little confession. He tries not to think about it, but he remembers Sam’s tanned and toned body covered in moles and fresh from the shower almost as well as he remembers the startled look on his fox-narrow face when he walked into the kitchen.

“C’mon, harder,” the bartender begs and Dean realizes he’s been rocking gently inside her while lost in his own thoughts and he pulls all the way out and then thrusts back in, groaning at the feel of it, trying to bring himself back to the moment.

It’s not like he’s thinking about sex with Sam right now, anyway. Just Sam in general.

Sex with Sam wouldn’t be anything like this, Dean thinks. He doesn’t know this girl from Adam, but Sam is the person he knows best in the world. He’s never had sex with someone he knew well. It seems like it would be pretty terrifying to have everything laid out like that, in such a personal way. Sam is so understanding, though, Dean imagines he would be sensitive to how intimate something like that would be. Maybe not gentle, though, because Dean’s sparred with the kid, and he fights dirty. It stands to reason he’d be rough in bed too.

All at once, Dean comes back to himself and he realizes he is pounding into this woman while thinking about his little brother. Worse still, he’s getting off on it.

He freezes and the bartender groans.

“Oh Jesus, don’t stop.” she rolls her hips against him, desperate. “I don’t know where you went just now, but it was so good.” Dean must look stricken, because she shakes her head. “I don’t care if you’re thinking about the goddamn pope, if that gets you there.” She brushes a hand along his jawline. “It’s just between you and me, hm?”

Dean has never needed to come so badly in his entire life, so he takes her advice against his better judgement. He thrusts into her again, but this time he closes his eyes and lets himself imagine Sam under him, long legs spread, head thrown back in ecstasy. Oh god, he could make Sam feel so good, whatever he wanted, just to see him panting and gasping Dean’s name.

He’s thrusting erratically now, the bartender is moaning, in little jerking “uh uh uh”s, and Dean is so far gone. It’s like he dove off a cliff and now has no way to stop his freefall. He imagines Sam on top of him, shoving him facedown into some shitty mattress and pounding into him from behind. He imagines that he would feel it for days afterwards.

Dean barely has the wherewithal to get a hand down between them and rub his thumb over her clit before he comes. She cries out and beats him by just a few seconds, and then he’s coming harder than he’s ever come in his life with Sam’s phantom voice in his ear whispering _“mine, Dean, mine.”_

When he comes down from the aftershocks, Dean realizes what he just did. Horror propels him up off the bed and into the tiny bathroom to puke up everything in his stomach.

What has he done?

*

Sam wakes up to the sound of a muffled _thump_. He comes all the way awake when he realizes the sound came from inside the apartment. He sits up carefully in bed and listens. There's a telltale creak of the loose floorboard in the living room. Someone has definitely broken in.

He slides out of bed, carefully not to wake Jess, and opens the bedroom door slowly. There's no more sounds and he hesitates, wondering if he should just call the cops. But they will have gotten away by then, and that's assuming whatever is out there is human at all.

Sam creeps down the hallway and peers around the corner into the living room. There's a shadowed figure standing with its back to him, so he takes the opportunity and attacks.

Whoever it is stumbles at first, surprised, but it doesn't last long. He seems able to anticipate all of Sam's moves and blocks each one. Only when Sam goes for his nose does the intruder take him down, grabbing Sam's wrist and using his own momentum to bring him to the floor.

Sam pants for breath, winded, and a familiar voice says: “Hey, easy tiger.” When Dean's face swims into view, Sam gasps again, feeling lightheaded and overwhelmed.

“Dean?”

“You're really out of practice, kiddo,” Dean says with a smirk and Sam sees red. He hooks a leg around Dean's waist and flips their positions, slamming Dean down with a little more force than necessary, knee on his hip to keep him there.

“Or not,” Dean chokes out, half laughing. His face is flushed and his eyelashes are dark against his skin and Sam hadn't been around him in so long he forgets he's not supposed to be looking. Dean's eyes narrow. “C’mon, get off me.”

Sam scrambles to his feet and offers Dean a hand automatically. “Dean...what are you doing here?”

Dean’s face is still mostly in darkness, but Sam can see him drop his gaze. “Well I was looking for a beer before you jumped me--”

“You’re the one who broke into my apartment in the middle of the night!” Sam snaps. “What the hell are you doing here?” He takes a step closer, ready to grab Dean’s shoulder, maybe shake some sense into him, but Dean moves back when Sam moves forward.

“Sammy…”

Suddenly the light clicks on and they spring apart. Jess is standing in the doorway, and she does not look pleased.

“What’s going on?” she demands.

Sam shoots a glance at Dean, who is halfway across the room now, and then back at Jess. “Uh, Jess, this is, uh, Dean.”

“Your brother, Dean?” she clarifies, her gaze cutting over to Dean. Sam has the brief startling revelation that their eyes are the exact same shade of green.

“Um. Yes. He just dropped in for a visit.”

Jess’ eyebrows raise in disbelief. “At two o’clock in the morning? And did this ‘visit’ have to include smashing my mother’s lamp?"

Shit. Sam glances to where she’s pointing and sees that, sure enough, during their tussle, the lamp had gotten knocked off the side table and smashed.

“I’ll pay for it,” Dean cuts in smoothly. “I’m sorry, I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in on Sammy here. I didn’t realize I’d startle him, or that he’d have anyone else here.”

Jess’ lip curls. “Well maybe if you’d been here for your brother, you’d have a better idea of what was going on in his life.”

Dean flinches like she landed a physical blow and Sam decides to intervene before things can get worse. Jess is just as protective of Sam as Dean is and fifteen times more likely to actually say what’s on her mind. “Hey, let’s just--” he turns to his brother. “Was there something you needed, Dean?”

Dean’s eyes flicker over to Jess and back, a silent question.

“Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of Jess.” Sam says, stepping over the broken lamp and putting an arm around his girlfriend. Dean’s looks a little betrayed, and Sam hopes that he doesn’t start talking about wendigos or ghouls out of spite.

“Dad’s missing,” he says instead. “He’s on a job and he hasn’t been home in a couple of days.”

Sam decides it would be a good idea to step outside after that.

“What do you mean he hasn’t been home in a couple days?” Sam demands, once they’re outside, where Jess can’t hear them. He saw the look on her face and he knows he’s gonna be paying for his weird behavior soon enough. “You do realize the man left us alone for months at a time when we were kids, right Dean?”

“Yeah, but he hasn’t--he hasn’t been out of contact for this long since you left.” Dean protests.

“And where exactly were you when he went missing?” Sam asks, “Why weren’t you on this hunt with him?”

Dean frowns. “We haven’t been hunting together. He di--we split up a few months after...he thought we’d be more effective working separately.” He looks at the ground as he speaks, and Sam gets a horrible sinking feeling in his chest.

“He...he left you alone after I came to school? You’ve been hunting all alone all this time?” In all his imaginings, when he let himself think about it, Sam always pictured Dean and Dad working together. That Dean got left by himself by both Sam and Dad at nearly the same time...Sam knows his brother, and Dean would’ve found it unbearable. “Dean…” He says, stepping forward.

Dean shuffles away again. “It’s fine,” he snaps, “I’m 26, you know, I can hunt by myself. And anyway, Dad called like once a week or so to check in, send me new hunts and stuff. But I haven’t heard from him in over a month, and he isn’t answering my calls.” Dean finally looks up at Sam again, eyes pleading. “Sammy, I haven’t bothered you since you went to school, I haven’t asked you for anything. I’m asking you to help me on this.”

And how is Sam supposed to say no to that? He left because of his infatuation with his brother, but he has Jess now, and it’s fine. Surely Dean wouldn’t ask for his help if he didn’t want to be around him. And from what Dean is saying, it would only be temporary, anyway. He can be back by Monday for his law school interview.

“Fine, okay.” He finally agrees, “Lemme just go pack a bag.”

*

Working with Sam again is exactly the same as it was before. It’s also nothing like it was before. It’s complicated.

Dean has been driving around the country for two years, trying to come to terms with his feelings about his little brother. After that hook up with that bartender in Illinois, it was like a dam had been opened and all the things he had been ignoring flooded out. The way his eyes had lingered on Sam, even before he found out the truth. The way he looked for any excuse to get his hands on his little brother, whether it was sparring or just an arm slung around his shoulders. He’s always been willing to do anything for Sam, but it took him so long to see it. Dean still hasn’t managed to come to terms with it, or to get rid of it, but at least he’s at a point where it isn’t too obvious on his face when he sees Sam again.

Not that Sam would notice. He only has eyes for Jessica. Dean can’t fault him for that; even if he knew Sam still felt the same way as he did in high school, he’s not sure he could bring himself to do anything about it.

But anyway. Hunting together again is incredible, and not just because Dean feels like he’s had a lost limb restored. Sam is just as good as he was before, maybe better, and Dean is tempted to ask him if he’s been keeping up his training while he was away at school. Knowing Sam, though, that’d probably just piss him off. Sam’s always been the best researcher of the three of them, but it’s clear that all of his hours in the library have paid off, because he’s even more efficient than he used to be. It’s a rougher hunt than they’re used to, especially without Dad to take point, but Dean’s convinced he wouldn’t have been able to solve it at all if Sam hadn’t agreed to come along.

Outside of the actual hunt, Dean has no idea what to do with his brother. They’ve been bickering all weekend, about Dad, about the hunt, about Sam leaving. Even with all the arguing, they manage to never bring up what drove them apart in the first place. They move around each other like strangers, all of the shoulder clasps and headlocks from their childhood gone. Other than pulling each other out harm’s way and the fight on the bridge, Dean is pretty sure they haven’t touched each other. Which is just as well, because when he had Sam’s jacket fisted in his hands, it was all he could do not to yank him forward into a kiss. But Sam doesn’t want that anymore, and Dean shouldn’t, so there’s no way he’ll do anything about it.

Besides, the hunt is over now, and Sam is going back to Jessica in the morning. Dean sits out on the steps of their motel room, chain smoking his way through a pack of Marlboro’s and trying to ignore the fact that, after tomorrow, he’s going to be all alone again.

Dean takes a deep drag off the cigarette and exhales, watching the smoke curl and climb up into the night sky. The motel door opens behind him, and then suddenly Sam drops down to sit on the step next to him.

“Those things will kill you,” he says conversationally.

 _What do you care?_ Dean wants to ask. Instead he takes another drag. “Sammy, we both know I ain’t gonna live long enough to get lung cancer.”

Sam makes a wounded sound and Dean chances a look at him from the corner of his eye. Sam looks hurt and frustrated and so damn beautiful it makes Dean’s heart ache. He wishes he could remove everything that makes his brother look so unhappy from his life.

It’s really unfortunate that he’s the cause of that look, then.

“Don’t be that way, Dean,” Sam says in that know-it-all voice that has always set Dean’s teeth on edge. “Just because I want to go back to school tomorrow doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.”

Dean laughs, but it’s a bitter sound. “Naw, I kind of took the leaving in the first place as that indicator.”

“You know why I left, Dean, and it wasn’t because I cared too _little_ about you.”

Dean can’t believe Sam’s suddenly bringing **It** up and alarm bells start going off in his head. They cannot discuss this. He stubs out his cigarette and stands up. “Whatever you need to tell yourself Sam. It’s late and we have a long drive ahead of us tomorrow. Unless you’ve changed your mind about going back?”

Sam looks furious, still sitting on the stoop with his fists clenched on his knees, giving Dean a murderous look. “You know I haven’t.”

“Yeah, didn’t think so. G’night, Sam.” Dean goes inside and turns out the lights, flinging himself down on the bed nearest the door.

Sam doesn’t come in for a long time.

*

It’s been fifty-four days since Jess died. Approximately 1300 hours since Sam watched her body go up in flames and knew in the deepest part of his heart that it was all his fault. The last two months have been the hardest of his life, and Sam is pretty sure if Dean hadn’t been there to pick him up, he would’ve just laid down on the ground and died.

They’re staying in a motel somewhere just outside St. Paul. Stillwater, Dean might’ve said. It’s right off the river and, more importantly, far away from Toledo and the vengeful spirit that confirmed Sam’s fear that he’s responsible for Jess’ death. There may still be things Sam is keeping from Dean, but his brother seems to know intuitively how badly the last case shook him, because immediately after they left Toledo, Dean announced that they were on a break.

 

_“At least until after Christmas,” he said. “Let’s go to Stillwell, there’s this place that makes amazing homemade pies there!”_

_“Do you ever think with anything other than your stomach?” Sam had asked._

_“I try not to.”_

 

Dean has been incredible through this whole ordeal. He’s behaving like everything is fine between them, like it was before Sam left for college. Even more than that, like it was before Sam ruined everything with that stupid school paper. Every day, there’s Dean’s hand on his shoulder, or grabbing his elbow, this reassuring touch that tells Sam everything is going to be okay. He’s made it clear that even though he hates emotional displays, Sam can talk to him about it, if he wants. At the same time, he hasn’t been pushy and made Sam talk before he’s ready. Once Dean worked out that having his brother next to him assuaged Sam’s nightmares, he started dragging Sam into his bed, an arm thrown protectively across Sam’s chest--even though he’s the taller one now, snoring loudly in Sam’s ear. It’s obnoxious and wonderful. All of Dean’s compassion and energy are focused on him and it’s been so long since that was the case, Sam hardly knows what to do with it.

It reminds him of all the reasons he fell in love with Dean in the first place.

And of course he’s still mourning Jessica, doesn’t know if he’ll ever truly stop, but he’s so glad he has Dean. Falling in love with Jess didn’t make him fall out of love with Dean, and he doesn’t think anything ever will. By some miracle, Dean seems to have accepted that, as long as Sam doesn’t try to do anything about it, and Sam is going to make the most of that gift.

“Can you get the door?” Dean asks as they trek up the icy steps to their motel room. It started snowing hard about twenty minutes ago, while they were at the grocery store, and there’s already a dusting on Dean’s hair and eyelashes. Sam blinks at the sight and then takes the keys and unlocks the door, hurrying in out of the cold.

Dean follows, stamping the snow off his boots and nudging the door shut with his hip. “It’s fucking cold!” He declares. His pale cheeks and the tip of his nose are pink and he looks so offended that Sam can’t help but laugh.

“You’re the one who wanted a white Christmas,” he reminds his brother, “That kinda means it has to be cold.”

“Yeah, well, next year we’re going to Florida and we’ll go to one of those ski places with the fake snow,” Dean grumbles. He winces when he realizes what he’s said, the same way he does every time he accidentally makes plans for the future. He’s still sure Sam is going to hightail it back to Stanford after they find Dad.

He doesn’t understand. Sam has no intentions of ever leaving Dean again.

“Go take a shower, then,” Sam suggests. “I’ll mix the eggnog and get dinner ready.”

Dean brightens at the mention of food. “Back in fifteen,” he says, shucking his jacket and shirt on his way to the bathroom. Sam gets to appreciate a few seconds of his muscular back before he swings the bathroom door almost all the way shut.

He gathers up all of the bags and moves them to the rickety table that serves as their dinette. They got a pre-cooked rotisserie chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy, and some rolls at the store, and Sam sets them all out on the table, along with paper plates from the cabinet. He puts the bag with Dean’s Christmas present under his bed and pulls out the eggnog and whiskey mix drinks.

By the time Dean pads back into the room with damp hair and bare feet, Sam has carved the chicken up as best he can with plastic silverware. “Dinner is served,” he says, handing Dean a glass of eggnog as he drops down into a seat at the table.

They eat in companionable silence, slowly working their way through the eggnog, and eventually switching to just drinking whiskey. Sam is feeling better than he has in months and he grins across the table at his brother, who smiles back without hesitation.

Sam thinks that Jess would want him to be happy, even if the closest he can get is having a cheap grocery store Christmas dinner with his big brother.

Dean mops up the last of the gravy on his plate with a bit of roll and pops it into his mouth. “Oh man, that was good. Now if only we’d had some of that awesome Stillwell pie, my life would be complete.”

“Funny you should mention…” Sam says, getting up and retrieving his gift from it’s hiding place. “Merry Christmas.”

Dean’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. “How did you get this?” He demands, snatching the box out of Sam’s hands and opening it to smell the pie. “They went out of business!”

Sam grins. “Did a little research. Turns out, the old lady who runs the place broke her hip last fall and couldn’t keep the pie shop up. She still lives in town, though, and bakes for friends and family. I found her and told her how much you loved her pie and she was more than happy to cook one up.”

“Dude,” Dean looks up at him, eyes shining a little from the drink. “Best brother ever.”

Sam feels the heat rise in his cheeks, but he’s pretty drunk, so Dean probably won’t notice. “Oh, well, I do try.”

“I have a present for you too, hang on.” Dean lurches out of his chair and stumbles over to his bag. He digs out a crudely wrapped package and stares at it for a few moments before turning back and handing it to Sam. “Uh...here.”

Sam drops down onto the foot of his bed and starts to unwrap it. It’s a paperback book. He turns it over in his hands and reads the cover: _My Audrina_ by V.C. Andrews. He stares at it in disbelief for a few seconds and then his gaze shoots to Dean, who is still motionless in front of him, eyes fixed on the ground.

Sam clears his throat a couple times. “What, ah. What is this?”

Dean shrugs. “I saw it in the Goodwill we went to the other week. You like that author right?”

“Dean. I...why?” They’ve never brought this up, and the one time Sam even got close, Dean was the one to shut it down. “Why did you buy me this book?”

“Um.” Dean shuffles on his feet, looking uncertain. “I just thought. I dunno.”

Against his better judgment, Sam feels himself getting angry. “Are you making fun of me?”

Dean’s brow furrows. “What? No!”

“Then what the hell is this?”

“It’s just a book! Jesus, Sam, I thought you were over it!”

“Well, I’m not!” Sam shouts, and then freezes. Dean freezes too, his eyes going wide.

“You’re...but what about…?” Dean stammers like he’s afraid to mention anything that might upset Sam. But he’s also the stupid idiot who bought this book.

“I loved Jess,” Sam says, “But that doesn’t mean--” He cuts himself off; he’s revealed too much already. If the reason Dean was so cool with him these last couple months was because he thought Sam was over it, will he leave Sam when he realizes that’s not the case.

Sam can’t take it. If Dean leaves, there will be nothing else to live for.

“Sammy?” Dean says, stepping closer. His eyes are wild. “‘But’ what?”

“Listen,” Sam says, “It’s not like I’m gonna do anything, okay? I’ve tried to stop feeling this way, Dean. You gotta believe me, I’ve been trying for as long as I can remember. Nothing works.”

“Sam.”

“I swear to God, I won’t ever try anything, just please don’t send me away, Dean.” he knows he’s begging, but he doesn’t care. Dean is all he has left.

Dean’s expression crumbles. “You think I would ever send you away? Sam, you’re my number one priority. Always have been.” He sits down gingerly on the edge of his own bed. “You have to know that.”

“Only ‘cos Dad told you that,” Sam grumbles, feeling a flicker of irritation.

Dean’s eyes flash. “No, because you’re the only thing I care about.” He seems to feel like he’s said too much because he looks down at his hands. “Sam, living like this is hurting you.”

It’s not a question. Sam feels a tendril of unease snake down his spine. “Pain is a part of life,” he says lamely. “Don’t get any stupid ideas.”

“But if I can make it stop hurting, why shouldn’t I?” Dean seems to be talking more to himself than to his brother, but the suggestion floors Sam.

“Because it’s not what you want to do!” he snarls, “What the fuck, Dean? You’re not going spare my feelings by fucking--becoming my... _whatever_ against your will!”

“But it is what I want to do,” Dean says it so softly that Sam almost doesn’t hear it at first. When it does register, he feels like the world has ground to a halt around him.

“What did you say?” He asks. Dean is having some kind of internal argument with himself, but Sam snaps his fingers and his eyes come up to meet Sam’s. “Dean?”

“It is what I want to do,” Dean repeats, his voice steady. “It’s so fucked up, but...I want it. I just didn’t realize it at first.” He gives Sam a shaky smile. “If it’s the only way for both of us to be happy, maybe it’s worth it.”

Sam swallows. He can’t quite believe they’re having this conversation. He can’t believe Dean hasn’t bolted yet. “So you want to hook up?” He asks. Because as much as he loves his brother, Sam thinks it would hurt so much worse to only have him physically.

Dean looks startled. “No! I mean, yes!  I mean...that’s not the only thing.”

“Then what do you want, Dean?” Sam asks. His voice is calm, but his heart is pounding a million miles an hour. “I know you don’t like talking about your feelings, but we can’t afford the lack of clarity. Not this time.”

“I want you with me,” Dean says, like it’s the simplest thing ever. And maybe it is; he’s been saying variations of it ever since Sam joined him back on the road. He rises slowly and moves to sit next to Sam on his bed. “I want us together against whatever, and in every way possible.”

It’s as close to a declaration of love as Dean will probably ever get and Sam is tired of talking anyway. He takes Dean’s face gently in his hands and kisses him.

Dean’s hands fly up and knot themselves in the front of Sam’s shirt. “Sammy,” he whispers. Sam kisses him again and Dean opens up for him like a flower in sunlight. He makes this soft little “oh” of surprise as Sam licks his way into his mouth and tilts his head, pressing closer. Sam has one hand wrapped around the back of Dean’s head and the other gripping his neck and he thinks he could stay like this forever.

Dean seems to have other ideas. His hands snake down to the hem of Sam’s t-shirt and tug it up, breaking contact between them as he tugs it over his head. Sam chases after his brother’s mouth as soon as the shirt is out of the way and Dean is right there waiting. His hands roam aimlessly across Sam’s chest as they kiss and Sam is out of his mind with how good this simple thing feels.

Eventually, they manage to shed the rest of their clothes, still kissing the whole time. Sam thinks his lips will be bruised and sore tomorrow. He puts his hands on Dean’s shoulders and pushes him down on to the mattress.

“This is insane,” Dean mutters and Sam ducks down to kiss the worries out of his mouth.

“It’s just us, Dean. Just you and me.” Dean shudders under him and Sam presses down against him, kissing him again. Sam thinks he’ll be dead and buried long before he ever gets tired of kissing Dean.

He can feel how hard Dean is against his hip, but he wants to feel the weight of it in his own hands. He slides a hand down between them and wraps it around Dean, tugging experimentally. 

Dean’s fingers tighten on his shoulders and he curses. “Oh, fuck, Sammy!”

“God, you’re so hot like this,” Sam says in a hushed voice. “It’s like touching the sun.” He kisses up the side of Dean's neck, tucking more kisses under his jawline.

“More, Sammy, please.” Dean begs, thrusting up into his brother’s hand. Sam braces himself on his elbow and lines up their cocks. He feels Dean’s twitch as they slide together.

“Oh god,” he moans, and Dean echoes him. Sam’s too far gone for anything fancy tonight, but by the sound of it, they have a lifetime to figure it out. “You ready to come, Dean?” 

“Ah, uh, _yes_ ,” Dean manages. Sam wraps his hand around both their cocks and starts stroking and Dean’s eyes flutter shut. They get a rhythm going, Sam stroking down and Dean thrusting up into his hand until they’re both insensible with it. Dean’s hands are buried to the wrists in Sam’s hair and Sam is starting to tremble from how close he is. 

Just as he feels himself starting to crest the wave, he leans down and kisses Dean, deep and dirty.

“I’m so fuckin’ in love with you,” he whispers as he pulls away.

Dean comes apart in his hands, keening and moaning. “Ohhh, god. _Sammy_.” Watching him is enough to send Sam crashing over the edge too, and he comes on a sob, digging his teeth into the meat of Dean’s shoulder.  

The rock together, slowly riding out the aftershocks for a few moments and then Sam rolls off Dean, onto his back next to him. “Holy shit,” he says hoarsely. Dean snorts and that’s enough to set Sam off, giggling like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

“Dude…” Dean tries to sound aggrieved, but Sam can hear him choking back laughter too. They lay there for a long moment, laughing harder than Sam can ever remember laughing before Dean finally levers himself up on his elbow. He looks down at Sam with the same exasperated fondness he always has, but now Sam can see it for what it really is.

“Sammy…” he tries, but he swallows back whatever he was going to say. Instead, he leans down and gives Sam the most tender, most protective kiss Sam has ever experienced. He pulls back, and smiles a real smile.

“Merry Christmas, Sammy.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for wincest secret santa and it was supposed to be a quick little oneshot that got away from me in a BIG way. No beta because it's already four days late, so apologies for any errors you spotted.


End file.
